Fields of Gold
by ScarlettWatson
Summary: The boy is golden all through, hair and flesh and soul, beautiful in a way that no person has ever been before. Honey and butterscotch and caramel. Oh my.


Written for "Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 3" and inspired by the song Fields of Gold, by Sting, and also by the recent heat wave in the UK.

* * *

It is the peak of summer.

Heat lies heavy on the land, smothering the earth and bending the crops beneath its weight, twisting the very air into shimmering mirage. It clings, slides, wraps around him, dripping from his curls and rolling down his spine as he walks.

He ignores it, chooses not to feel the stifling drag as he walks down the rutted dirt road to the village. He refuses awareness of the dust that rises and chokes him with every step, drying his throat and clogging his nostrils. Unimportant.

In the village, pleas for help. _Find it, solve it, fix it, help me._ And he will, he will, because that is what he does. The heat, the dust, these are irrelevant. The puzzle is what matters. Sixteen years old and already he knows he is smarter than anyone here, one hundred times more competent, his genius elevating him above these peasants in a manner that his wealth and family name do not, cannot.

A new boy, unfamiliar, stretched languorous in the sun on a bench outside the café. He stands and offers a greeting. Short, stout, common, boring. Irrelevant.

The first clue, the first notion, the first deduction. The boy follows, watches, exclaims. Brilliant, he says, and amazing, incredible, extraordinary. Unusual, to hear such praise. Unexpected.

He raises his eyes and looks at the boy, suddenly fresh, new. The sun still beats down upon the land but it softens over the boy, breaks and melts, rich golden syrup dripping from his skin. The boy is golden all through, hair and flesh and soul, beautiful in a way that no person has ever been before. Honey and butterscotch and caramel. Oh my.

They meet in the village and solve petty crimes. They meet in the café and he watches the boy eat. They meet in the bookstore and the boy laughs as he stacks the books so high on the counter that he cannot see over them, and even his laugh is golden and sparkling.

They meet in a field of barley. A picnic, the boy says. Blanket and snacks. Inane and common, yes, but nevertheless. Here he is.

The Manor crouches low and dark and brooding on the ridge above them, and he turns his back so that he does not have to look at it. He watches the wind roll across the barley, fat spikes hanging bent beneath the weight of the grain, rippling in the smothering hot breeze like golden ocean waves.

They sit, they eat. The boy lies back, hands beneath his head, tawny stomach exposed where his shirt has ridden up. A soft, happy sigh.

The heat is building up, not just outside now but in, and he cannot turn it off, cannot ignore it. Irrelevant, he thinks. Unnecessary, he thinks. But it rises, a conflagration, a raging inferno, until he must move, must act or be burnt alive.

When their lips meet, the inferno expands, scorching him inside and out. Beneath his hands the boy is liquid fire, his body rising and rolling like the wind across the barley, and he is drowning in molten gold. Higher he falls, faster, the flames twisting through his veins and his nerves and then, finally, finally, his heart, and he spills himself with the boy's name burning his lips.

And then. After. His head is pillowed on the boy's golden chest, draped languid in a blanket of heat and surrounded by rolling fields of gold, the sky a faded blue bowl above them. The boy twines his hair through stubby fingers and draws a deep breath.

Enlisted, the boy says. Shipping out. Less than a week.

And he is not surprised, because he is who he is and he already knew. But he is quiet when the boy speaks. He does not brag or boast. He catches the hand that twines through his hair and holds it tight, letting the warmth that blossoms in his chest expand until it fills him up, displacing the scorching heat of the world with its gentle tenderness.

No matter what, he says. No matter where. I will find you again.

I promise.

* * *

Full disclosure: I wrote this last night while a bit drunk because I was struck over the head with the inspiration bat and could not help myself. I was actively trying out a new style, a bit of a departure from my usual unnecessarily verbose method. I would very much like to hear what people think of how this turned out, if you have a moment.


End file.
